Triage
by Issai
Summary: For Legoelf. This story takes place sometime after the massacre in Savoy. You can treat it as a prequel to Fear of Tomorrow, but it stands alone also.


**_"There is nothing I can do." The physician's words had destroyed all hope. Athos drew near to Porthos, who was staring at Aramis. The marksman was unconscious, lying on the surgeon's table. Athos wanted to offer some kind of comfort to his brother, but Porthos drew his pistol and aimed it at the medic.  
"Don't try to give up on my brother."  
_**

Porthos ducked another blade which tried to cut into his side. He lunged at his opponent, feigning an attack with his rapier, only to hit him with the hilt of his pistol. His enemy dropped to the ground. Porthos caught a movement with the corner of his eye and turned back. His main gauche flew from his hand to bury itself deep in the bandit's chest. The musketeer lunged to retrieve his weapon. He felt a hot sting on his arm as a musket bullet glanced off it. He cursed, sure that the marksman was out of his reach.

He tried to localize the source of the shot, but then saw one of his fellow musketeer, Etienne, struggling with two opponents. Porthos leapt to help him. His brother-in-arms was already bleeding, the blood smeared on his doublet. Porthos noted the absence of his usual agility in his movements.

He ran his blade through one of the bandits. The other one, slightly distracted by the death of his comrade, was an easy target even for the wounded Etienne. The man thanked Porthos with a slight nod of his head.

"We have to help the others!" Porthos gestured with his sword to a group of musketeers who were still engaged in a furious fight. Etienne nodded, and they charged.

Porthos, seeing the man favoring his wounded side, tried his best to protect him. He managed to knock out one of the aggressors with a single punch, giving an opportunity for Etienne to attack. The pair did not work together with the synchrony that Porthos had when he fought with Aramis or Athos, but still, days of training together had paid off.

Porthos felt a blade coming at him from behind. He dodged desperately, but the blade never even got close to his skin. His attacker was run through by Davin. Porthos cast a brief smile in the direction of his savior, then lunged an attack at one of the remaining bandits. As his sword slashed the man's side, he saw the tip of a rapier coming from the bandit's back. Porthos met Athos' gaze over the dying man.

His leader was covered in blood, but was firmly standing on his own feet. He must have seen the unspoken question in Porthos' eyes, because he stated calmly, "It's not mine." Porthos nodded in relief, and they started to look around.

Finally, the struggle seemed to be over. Although their information had been misleading and they had been severely outnumbered in the beginning, now the last remaining bandits were dead. A few were disarmed.

However, several musketeers were laying motionless in the bloody mud. Aramis should be there by his side, struggling with death over his fellow musketeers! But Porthos realized with horror that the sharpshooter was nowhere to be seen.

He had lost eye contact with Aramis at the beginning of the fight. As usual, the marksman had deferred charging with his rapier while he still had loaded guns.

"Take the wounded to the village! The physician lives in the second house on the left! Hurry up!" Tréville gave his orders.

Porthos checked the closest motionless body.  
Lamare. Dead.  
He went to another.  
Darroux. Still alive.  
He picked him up and handed him to Etienne, who was already on his horse.  
Raval. Dead.  
He shook his head, and lifted his gaze to search for another musketeer's body.  
Only then did he see a familiar dagger. He lifted the bandit's corpse which covered his friend's body.

"Aramis!"

The Spaniard did not respond. He appeared to still be bleeding from a wound on his right side. There was so much blood. Porthos' hand shook as he searched for a pulse. He had felt the same dread when he had searched for Aramis' body at the site of the massacre in the Savoy forest.

"How is he?" asked Athos.

Porthos finally felt his friend's faint pulse.  
"Bad- but alive," he replied.

He did not realize that Athos had gone for a horse, but now the older musketeer was kneeling beside him. One of the musketeer's horses was standing near them.

"Mount," Athos ordered gently, taking Aramis in his arms in order to place him on the horse in front of Porthos.  
The dark skinned musketeer gently positioned his wounded friend, then rode toward the village as fast as he dared. He found the physician's house without a problem, but a woman directed him instead to the inn, where his wounded comrades were being cared for.

He entered, carrying Aramis in his arms. He tried not to notice how limply his friend's head hung.

The inn was quite large. Wounded musketeers were lying on several tables, and a middle-aged man was busy assessing them. He appeared to be overwhelmed by all the wounded. Two women entered from the kitchen, carrying pots of boiling water and some clean rags.

"Monsieur?" Porthos caught the man's arm. "My friend is seriously wounded…"  
"Put him on that table," answered the physician. Porthos obeyed.

He could not bring himself to take his hand from Aramis' arm. He did not want to break the contact between them.

The doctor did not pay any notice. He ordered Porthos to help him unbutton the wounded man's doublet. Then he cut his shirt off. There was a long, deep cut on his right side. Porthos was sure that he could see the whiteness of bone.

The medic checked Aramis' pulse, and his expression became grim.  
"Is he…?" Porthos could not bring himself to finish his question. He looked at Aramis' deathly pale face.

"He is still alive, but it doesn't matter. He has essentially already bled out. I am only wasting my time here. I need to help the others who can still be saved, and he… there is nothing I can do. I am sorry." He made a move to leave in order to take care of the other injured men.

Porthos drew out his pistol, and aimed it at the medic.

"Don't try to give up on my brother," he growled. His voice was shaking, but his hand did not waver. He knew that Athos and Tréville had entered the inn. He could feel their eyes on him. But they did not intervene, and Porthos was grateful.

"Hold him," muttered the defeated physician.  
Porthos obeyed, but Aramis did not even move when his wound was stitched.

"Do you want to take him to a room?" asked a frightened young woman. She was probably the innkeeper's daughter.

"Can he be moved?" Porthos glanced at the medic.

The physician shrugged.  
"It really doesn't matter," he muttered.

Porthos wanted to punch him for treating his friend as if he were already dead. However, he felt a hand on his arm. Athos.

"It would be a good idea to take him to the room," his leader said simply. Porthos was grateful for his calm.

Don't blame the medic- he doesn't know anything about battlefield medicine," added Athos, once they were in the room. Aramis was lying on the bed.

Porthos nodded. Athos was trying to give him hope, but Porthos was not sure if there was any hope. He could still hear the physician's words.

"I'll help the others as much as I can. I'll be back," murmured Athos, and Porthos was left alone. He took Aramis' hand in his. He was not even sure if the marksman had the will to fight for his life. He knew that much of Aramis' joy and lust for life were a sham. A part of the sharpshooter's soul had died in Savoy's forest, and Porthos was afraid that too little was left to fight. It was ironic that even though Aramis was always so reckless, this was his first serious injury after Savoy.

Let it not be his last…

"Aramis… don't you dare die on me! I wouldn't even know which woman to inform… I have lost count of your lovers… Just how exactly do you seduce all these women? You told me once you'd teach me how to do it… although I am not sure you remember. You weren't very sober at the time."

Nonsense. He was talking nonsense, hoping that his voice would anchor Aramis in the land of the living. He did not cease his monologue, even when Athos came back.

"Porthos, you should wash all that blood off you. I can't even tell for sure if you are hurt."  
The dark skinned musketeer ignored his leader. He was too afraid to look away from Aramis. What if it was only his willpower which kept Aramis breathing?

Athos did not try again.

"Aramis would try to drip some water into our mouths if any one of us were in such a condition," the older musketeer said, handing Porthos a bowl with water.  
"Aramis would not give us just water," stated Porthos. He remembered the bitter taste of his friend's brews. They tended to be quite awful.

"That medic gave up on him! If he had had his way, he would have just left him there on that table to die!" Porthos choked on his words. Athos only sighed.  
"Aramis would never give up! NEVER!"

They both knew that Aramis was always ready to fight for the lives of his patients, even if the odds were very slim. Maybe that was because every time he lost a patient, the ghosts of the musketeers killed in Savoy seemed to return to haunt the marksman.

His friends knew that it really did not matter whether or not the medic knew the patient he had lost personally. The effect seemed to be the same either way. Usually they ended up sitting in Athos' apartment, drinking wine until Aramis was drunk enough to fall asleep. And his brothers had to remain sober enough to wake him from his nightmares.

There was a knock on the door, and Tréville entered.  
"How is he?" he asked.  
"Alive. No fever," replied Porthos.

"That's good. I sent Davin to fetch a better surgeon. I hope they will arrive in the morning. I am going to escort the prisoners to Paris. I should be back tomorrow evening with carts for the wounded. Athos, I leave you in command. Take care of our men."  
"Yes, sir."

"And take care of Porthos," added the captain before leaving them.

Late at night, a soft knock was heard at the door. Porthos realized that he was still talking to Aramis, and his throat was very sore. He called out permission for the person to enter. A woman appeared with a jug.

"Maybe this will help him. It's yarrow mixed with honey," she said timidly.  
"Did the physician send you?" he asked.  
"No… I treated my children with this, and it helped," she said.  
"Thank you." Porthos was grateful. He had no idea what that yarrow was, but the woman believed it was something which could help Aramis. At least she was not sentencing him to death!

She left. Porthos was astonished that a tray of food stood next to the jar. He did not know when it had appeared there. However, he was not really hungry. He drank some wine.

He felt sore. He remembered vaguely that he had been injured during the fight. It wasn't serious, but it should be cleaned. Aramis would be furious with him if he let his wound become infected due to sheer negligence.

At this point, he would welcome Aramis' fury. Anything would be better than the deathly stillness of his body.

Porthos was still holding Aramis' hand. He needed to feel his pulse-to have tangible proof that his friend was still alive.

He was not even aware when Athos came in with the medic that had been fetched by Davin.

The physician inspected the wound, his manner grave. Porthos did not want to hear another death sentence declared for his dearest friend. However, the words "time will tell" sounded almost like hope. Porthos clung to the words desperately.

His hope started to fade when day turned into night, and Aramis remained unresponsive.

The dark skinned musketeer was vaguely aware that Athos was still in the room. He did not protest when the older musketeer made him take off his doublet. Athos patiently patched up the scratches which the enemy's blades and bullets had left on his comrade's skin alongside multiple bruises.

Porthos was fighting the urge to sleep. He was afraid that if he fell asleep, Aramis would not be alive when he woke up. He would not believe that he had already forgotten Aramis' teasing words the morning before their fight. It had been something about Porthos' horse being unhappy with his rider's large breakfast. It seemed like that had been so long ago. The musketeer lowered his head, leaning his face into Aramis' cold palm. His composure was wavering dangerously.

"Don't cry for him when he is still breathing!" whispered Athos.  
"I can't imagine life without him," confessed Porthos  
"So don't," replied Athos simply.

Porthos could hear the fear and tension in his friend's voice, but he appreciated his attempt to lift the mood. However, neither of them was very good at it. That was Aramis' job.

Porthos closed his eyes for a moment. He must have fallen asleep. A dream woke him up. No, he was still dreaming. He could feel someone gently squeezing his hand. He held his breath, then felt it once more. Long fingers encircled his wrist. He lifted his head, then froze when he looked into a pair of brown eyes. Aramis' lips curled in a small smile, but his eyes left Porthos' face and searched for something.

"Water?" guessed the musketeer.  
His brother nodded slightly. Porthos helped him to drink from a waterskin. He wanted to pull it away after a while, but Aramis whimpered in protest.

"What are you whining about? You are always mean when we are injured!" protested Porthos.  
Only after the waterskin was emptied did Aramis answer.  
"I'm not concussed, just thirsty!"  
"You lost a lot of blood," said Porthos  
"So I guessed." Aramis closed his eyes.

After a moment, he opened them in alarm.  
"Are you hurt?" he asked anxiously  
"Just a few scratches," replied Porthos  
"Have they been taken care of?"  
"Yeah… but you scared me!"  
"Later," replied Aramis, losing his fight with sleep.

Porthos shook his head with a smile. Then he realized that Athos was standing in the open door.  
"He will live," stated Porthos with relief.  
Athos' smile echoed Porthos'.

"And why should I have died?" asked a sleepy Aramis  
"The medic did not want to sew you up," replied Athos. "Porthos had to pull a gun on him to get him to do it."  
"I guess I own you my life then," replied Aramis. "I'm just sorry I didn't see it myself," he yawned  
"You should be!" replied Athos.  
Aramis only hummed his agreement.

"I'll fetch some breakfast," offered the older musketeer after a while.  
"Count me in. I can smell fresh bread," mumbled Aramis. He did not even bother to open his eyes.  
His brothers exchanged amused gazes.

Aramis was asleep when Athos returned with the breakfast. They decided not to wake him. After eating, Porthos lay down near his friend. He knew he would wake up to find Aramis huddled next to him. He had gotten used to the Spaniard's need for touch.

Porthos was not sure what had woken him, but he instinctively grabbed his weapon and moved to shield Aramis with his body. The Captain looked at him quizzically.

"Peace," he said with a smile. From the way his men were sleeping, he might have guessed that his marksman was out of danger.

"I am leaving for Paris. Take as much time as you need. If you are not going to come within two weeks' time, send a message."  
"Thank you." Porthos appreciated the extra time which the captain had given them to heal.

Aramis was persistent about needing to speak with the village physician. The marksman was still weak, and grudgingly accepted Porthos' support as they made their way to the medic's house. The man paled noticeably at the sight of the two musketeers, but invited them in. Porthos was quite curious what Aramis was planning. After all, he did not think for a second that Aramis had brought him there in order to have him apologize to the medic.

His friend accepted the chair that was offered to him, then looked intently at the medic.  
"So-I am glad my diagnosis was wrong," admitted the man hesitantly.  
"So am I. However, you must admit that I would be dead if it were not for my brother's stubbornness-and that is exactly why I wanted to speak to you."

The physician looked really scared at this point. Aramis smiled slightly. Actually, it could best be described as a wolfish grin.  
"Why did you sentence me to death?" he asked pointedly.

Porthos stiffened at his words. The memories were still too vivid and too painful.  
"You had nearly bled out-you were on the verge of going into shock!"  
"Mhm… so… I suppose that you did not see any fatal wound on me?"  
"Many of your companions were wounded! I had to make difficult choices about who to treat!"  
"Did anyone die because of me?" asked Aramis, although he already knew the answer to that question. He had asked Porthos earlier to tell him about all the victims and their injuries.

"No. What do you want from me, Monsieur?! I admit it! I made a horrible mistake! I am guilty! But if you want to whip me, I beg you-don't do it in front of my family!"

Aramis did not answer, but merely stared at him intently.

"Please, don't kill me! My children are still young! And… the village needs a medic, even if I am not a very good one. After all, it's better than having no one! I assure you, I do have some experience with illnesses and childbirths, and I think I give good care in those situations."

Aramis slowly nodded. Porthos tried to guess what was in his friend's mind. He knew Aramis was not seeking vengeance.

"Well, after all, you did save my life- even if you had to be coerced into it with a firearm," said Aramis. "I am not a physician. However, I have had experience tending to many wounds. I would very much appreciate it if you would allow me to share some of my knowledge with you...just in case we need your help in the future. That is why I have come to see you. We are going to stay here for a few days, as I don't really care to travel in a cart, and my friends seem to think that I am not yet well enough to ride. Do you accept my offer?" This time, Aramis' smile was sincere.

The physician looked at him, speechless for a few moments. Then he nodded eagerly.  
Aramis' smile grew even wider.

THE END

 **Many thanks to Riversidewren for betaing :)**


End file.
